A HEARTY thank you to those loyal readers who rang or emailed to offer congratulations on my success at last week’s Midlands Media Awards.

That list of well-wishers does not include my wife, who looked at the gleaming trophy and huffed: “It wasn’t for DIY, that’s for sure!”

The award has not changed me, but please direct further correspondence through my PA. One member of the public rang to say: “So, you’re an award-winning journalist.”

That’s multi-award-winning, actually.

Success, of sorts, has arrived in my dotage. My old maths teacher used to bellow: “Lockley, you’ll achieve nothing by staring out of a window all day.”

Should’ve seen his face when I served him at the McDonald’s drive-thru.

To the editor – if still alive – who informed me in the late 1970s that “I’d never make a reporter as long as there’s a hole in your a**e”, he’s welcome to inspect me.

After 42 years in the job, I really believe I’m getting the hang of this journalism lark.

I have been lucky on two counts: I found a job that is exciting and unpredictable and I am still in employment, despite today wearing a cardigan that is older than ten of my work colleagues.

The true joy of my “lot” is frequently hammered home by a drinking companion whose job is so boring that the entire office has sick building syndrome.

He went to work on Friday and the building wasn’t there. It phoned in later and claimed to have a sore throat.

He listened patiently in the pub as I boasted about last Thursday’s awards ceremony before snapping.

“You’re lucky,” he growled. “I’d jack my job in tomorrow, but I need the sleep.

“If I wanted to, I could work from home, but it would affect my company car. They’d swap it for one that doesn’t start.”

His eyes narrowed as I listed recent stories I’d worked on: Britain’s oldest Page 3 model and her giant pet rabbit; UFOs over Cannock Chase; a man who narrowly missed a rail disaster by not catching the train or, er, not being in the country at the time.

He narrowly missed the rail disaster in the same way I narrowly missed the rail disaster.

“At the age of 52,” my friend huffed, “I feel unfulfilled. I feel trapped in a job that isn’t rewarding, that isn’t helping mankind.”

That’s where we differ. I do help mankind.

Last week, I tracked down the 1971 winner of Cannock Young Conservative’s Miss Hot Pants competition. The grandmother refused to squeeze into those hot pants.

I grasped my colleague’s arm, fixed him with a steely glance and hissed: “You are the man in charge of the gloopety-gloopety machine that puts the fondant centres in custard creams. Never forget that.”

I got to my feet and addressed the crowded pub.

“Without this man,” I bellowed, pointing to my blushing colleague, “there would be no custard in your custard creams.”

Drinkers cast a puzzled glance in our direction.

“Well, there would be custard in them,” I quickly corrected myself, “but so much that it oozed between the two biscuits. Or maybe there’d not be enough.”

There was a stony silence. “Here’s to the man,” I shouted, raising my glass, “who ensures there’s exactly the right amount of custard in your custard creams.”

Two old ladies broke into limp applause.

“I just wish,” my friend shrugged, “that I did something exciting and creative, like your job. I’ll bet you don’t know what you’re doing from one day to the next.”

I leaned forward and whispered: “I don’t, but don’t tell anyone, especially not the chap in charge of IT.”

“Come on,” he prodded, “what did you do yesterday?”

I thought hard.

“Interviewed an elderly couple who had been married for 70 years; went to the unveiling of a dog poo bin at a children’s play area and attended a council meeting about chewing gum on pavements.”

My colleague blew his cheeks out and mouthed: “Life in the fast lane, or what?”

Yes, I do feel privileged being a member of The Fourth Estate.

On my very first day as a reporter, the hard-bitten editor told me: “You are the 1970s version of a town crier.”

On my third day I received a verbal warning for persistently ringing a handbell in the office and shouting “Oyez”.

It’s a job that’s given me the opportunity to visit fascinating places, interview fascinating people and correspond with stars (well, their lawyers, anyway).

Through this job, I’ve been invited to attend Christmas festivities in Hamburg’s Reeperbahn.